


Take My Hand, Erase the Past Forever

by InkStainsOnMyHands



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied Attempted Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Marriage, Miracles, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Supernatural Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkStainsOnMyHands/pseuds/InkStainsOnMyHands
Summary: Upon closer inspection, Aziraphale realized the figure striding towards him, with a lack of swagger to their hips, couldn't possibly be his friend.This man wore Crowley’s features, but his eyes were the rich color of cognac rather than serpentine yellow. The stranger’s boyishly long hair was a shade darker than his friend’s, more brunette than auburn, and swooped to the side. Furthermore, a fashionado such as Crowley would never be caught dead in this intruder’s grey cable knit sweater and blue jeans.The clincher, however, was the heat of pure holiness radiating from him, as if a small sun had been lodged in his core. Aziraphale could feel his light warm away the evening chill from his skin.Aziraphale begins to age, and a certain angel comes to the rescue.





	Take My Hand, Erase the Past Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on the trope "Crowley was Raphael before he fell". It is also an excuse to write Aziraphale and Crowley looking more like their actor counterparts.

Aziraphale abhorred the shrill beep of Crowley’s answering machine. No matter how many times it blared in his ear, it jolted his skin and made him wince. He suspected it wouldn’t irritate him as much if he were calling for a more casual reason. But, given the circumstances, the ancient device only served to announce the vast emptiness on the other end of the line. 

“Crowley, it’s me. I do hope you haven’t tried to run out on me again. Please call me back.” After a brief second of hesitation, Aziraphale added, “I-I need you.” 

Without another word, Aziraphale placed his phone’s receiver back onto its handle with care. He gave into the urge to run his hand over his puffed, tired eyes. 

Oh, that was new! His skin felt the tiniest bit fleshier in his palms. Aziraphale wondered if he would ever become accustomed to the sensation of his body changing day-by-day. Or, growing grey hair. Or, fatigue. Hunger. Headaches. 

“Aziraphale.” 

In one quick movement, Aziraphale pivoted on his heel towards the call of his name. Numbing relief rushed through him in a flood of mercy. At the entrance of his bookshop stood Crowley! Finally! Except…

Upon closer inspection, Aziraphale realized the figure striding towards him, with a lack of swagger to their hips, couldn't possibly be his friend. 

This man wore Crowley’s features, but his eyes were the rich color of cognac rather than serpentine yellow. The stranger’s boyishly long hair was a shade darker than his friend’s, more brunette than auburn, and swooped to the side. Furthermore, a fashionado such as Crowley would never be caught dead in this intruder’s grey cable knit sweater and blue jeans. 

The clincher, however, was the heat of pure holiness radiating from him, as if a small sun had been lodged in his core. Aziraphale could feel his light warm away the evening chill from his skin. 

No, this stranger was not Crowley, but an angel - a most uninvited guest. 

“Who are you?” Aziraphale hissed. “What have you done to Crowley?” 

The angel swayed his head to the left. His eyebrows knitted together. “Calm down, I haven’t done anything to anyone!” he scoffed. 

Aziraphale’s desk screeched in protest as the back of his legs pressed into it. Without taking his eyes off of the other angel, Aziraphale groped behind his back for something, anything, to defend himself with. His quivering fingers found cool medal, and he held no reservations about brandishing it in front of him. 

It was a letter opener, and a dull one at that. Still, it could do some damage in the hands of a flustered angel. 

The intruder paused. His eyes bulged as he sucked his bottom lip into his sputtering mouth. Aziraphale attempted a guttural growl, but it only made the other bark out a proper laugh. 

“What? Are you going to bore me to death with your junk mail?” The stranger teased, which only served to add to Aziraphale’s maelstrom of churning emotions. The nameless intruder continued forward until he was close enough to murmur, “Please, angel. Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.” 

“Don’t call me that!” Aziraphale countered. 

“What?” 

“I-I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me ‘angel’,” Aziraphale declared as sternly as he could manage. His command wasn’t as intimidating as he had hoped, if his intruder’s dismissive sniff was any indication. Okay, Aziraphale would try reasoning. “It is a special term of endearment only my friend is allowed to use.” 

The other angel arched a delicate eyebrow. “That’s a bit childish, don’t you think? I mean, you _are_ an angel.” 

“It’s not childish at all!” Aziraphale insisted.

The intruder tsked and rolled his eyes. Gentle fingers plucked the letter opener from Aziraphale’s grasp. As he set the makeshift weapon onto Aziraphale’s desk, he derided, “Right, yes, well, I’m not here to argue about your maturity level, Aziraphale. I’m here to help you. ” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Help me with what?” 

“That sudden ‘aging’ problem you have.” The stranger hovered in Aziraphale’s bubble. 

How did heaven find out about that? Aziraphale pushed himself further against his desk. “Look, who-ever-you-are -”

“Raphael.” 

“What?” 

“That’s my name.” 

“As in the _Archangel_ Raphael?” Shock colored every one of Aziraphale’s words; the Archangel had been missing for several millennia!

Raphael’s lips stretched into a smirk that could rival Crowley’s. “The very same.” 

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to curl into himself in submission; he quelled that impulse with some effort. Instead, he schooled his features into the same neutral expression he reserved for difficult customers. “Raphael, if I may, since you've been away you may not have heard that my friend and I would very much like to be left alone. I have no intention of tying myself back to Heaven, even if I am ...falling.” 

“I’m not here as an emissary of Heaven,” Raphael explained. “Nor are you falling, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale blabbered, “How could you possibly know that? I-I couldn’t find any information on my condition!” 

“That’s because no angel has willingly severed their ties to heaven before. But, according to the Almighty, your actions come with some interesting side effects, including -” Raphael curled his lip and made a gesture over Aziraphale’s chest with his hand. “- decay.” 

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. Why the nerve of this stranger! He scrunched his nose and straightened his coat. 

Wait! Did he just say he spoke to God herself? 

Before Aziraphale could ask, Raphael clicked his tongue. “You’ve cut yourself off a veritable fountain of youth, and your corporeal form is at least five thousand and some odd years out of warranty.” 

Aziraphale cocked his head. “And God sent you here to help with it? Why? How? I’ve told you, I don’t plan on binding myself to Heaven ever again.” 

It shouldn’t have been possible, but Raphael loomed even closer to Aziraphale. “You won’t need to bind yourself to Heaven. All we need to do is rekindle _our_ bond.” 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at Raphael. “What do you mean ‘our bond’?” 

Raphael tilted his head forward. Aziraphale followed the line of his sight down to his own rubbing hands. “That’s a lovely ring on your pinkie. Where did you get that?” 

What? Indignation ruffled Aziraphale metaphysical feathers. He covered his gold wing-shaped ring with his palm. “Don’t change the subject!” 

Raphael’s amber gaze sharpened. He took Aziraphale’s ring-clad hand into his own and rubbed the surface of the gem with his thumb. His grip was firm but gentle. And, in that moment, the last thing Aziraphale wanted was for him to let go, as if an ancient longing for his touch had been reawakened.

Aziraphale gasped as his ever-living heart battered against his chest. What was this? 

“Trust me, I am not,” Raphael insisted before pleading, “Where did you get the ring? Try and remember.” 

Aziraphale, in the meantime, wasn’t able to pull together a semblance of an idea, let alone a memory. His focus was centered on the sudden magnetic energy heating the air between them, urging him closer to Raphael. Without conscious thought, his mouth opened, his eyelids dipped and his head pitched to the side. 

The only other person he felt this compulsion for (albeit not as strongly) was - 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered in a daze. 

Raphael’s eyes warmed into hot cocoa and his smirk softened into a smile. One of his hands came to rest against the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek. The other steadied Aziraphale’s lower back. 

Raphael leaned closer, pressing the tip of his nose over Aziraphale’s. Their foreheads met. “Close, but not quite the whole story, my love. Now think,” he whispered. 

Aziraphale’s mouth moved of its own accord, reciting a memory so far away from his consciousness it was similar to reading a passage from a book aloud. “You gave the ring to me, as a betrothal gift.” 

“That’s right,” Raphael croaked. The ghost of his words ran over Aziraphale’s awaiting mouth. 

In the next instant, neither angel could resist the gravity between them; Raphael captured Aziraphale’s lips in a molten kiss. They moaned as they fell into a whirlwind of touching and grasping and moving against each other. It was so urgent, so frantic, as though they could be torn apart at any moment. 

So long, they had been made to forget _this_ for so long! It came rushing back: the fear, the anger, the sorrow, the joy, their _love_. 

Aziraphale’s eyes grew heavy as he came upon the memory of Raphael being cast out of Heaven. Aziraphale had been devastated, grieving over his spouse’s lost grace and pleading for his salvation in the same breath. It was just shy of disobedience, and for his crime, Aziraphale had been forced to forget about their marriage. In an instant, Raphael became another figure in mythology. 

Oh God! But had Crowley remembered their romance? Had he yearned for his husband for over six thousand years? Was that why they had become such close friends? So he could keep tabs on his former lover? 

They pulled apart only so Aziraphale could ask between shared air, “Did you remember it? Us?” 

Raphael - no, Crowley shook his head. “Thank God for small miracles.” 

Oh, that sounded so strange coming from Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale laughed. 

* * *

Crowley sat up from between Aziraphale’s parted thighs. He made a show of using his strength to tear his sweater off of himself. “Hate that thing,” he sneered as tattered pieces of wool fell over the side of Aziraphale’s bed. 

“Why did you even conjure it?” Aziraphale asked before Crowley dove in for another kiss. 

Crowley’s lips spilled down Aziraphale’s chin and neck. In between nibbles to his flesh, he breathed out, “That’s just what I was sent down with after my grace was restored. Angel aesthetic, I suppose. Not a fan, me.” 

That begged another question. 

“Why -” Aziraphale pushed at Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley whimpered as he was lifted from Aziraphale’s heated skin. “- did she restore your grace? Not that I’m complaining.” 

Breathlessly, and with a shrug of his shoulders, Crowley explained, “She didn’t give me a lot of details. One second I’m standing around on Earth, and in the next I’m in a room of big white nothingness being told I’m an Archangel.” 

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow at Crowley. “So, she didn’t send you back with explicit instructions to save my life?” 

“Nope,” Crowley says, popping his ‘p’. “It was just something I understood I could do now.” 

Aziraphale wanted to exhale the word, “Interesting,” but was cut off by Crowley rolling his hips, bringing their respective arousals together. In response, Aziraphale moaned and became pliable enough for his lover to continue raining bites on his neck uninterrupted. 

* * *

Later, years and years later, Crowley will admit that he wasn’t just “standing around on Earth” prior to being “beamed up”. He was, in fact, a nanosecond away from touching a fountain of holy water in a solemn little church on the outskirts of London. 

At Aziraphale’s indignation, Crowley will explain that Aziraphale wouldn’t stop partaking of his demonic poison, electing to follow Crowley like a duckling after its mother no matter the cost. 

Of course, Aziraphale would be proven right, he was afflicted by something other than “falling”. At the time, the possibility didn’t seem so likely; Crowley thought Aziraphale was losing himself to their friendship. 

Regardless, the two angels will ponder on whether or not such a noble, self-sacrificing act was the reason Crowley’s grace was restored.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert: It wasn't. God just really ships them. 
> 
> Anyway, critiques, comments and kudos are my life blood.


End file.
